Detective Amanda Lacey Box Set

by Linda Coles

  Can you get more sinister than killing someone?

  She'd clicked on a couple of links and tentatively had a look around some of the articles on how to access it, but her nerves had got the better of her. Did the FBI, CIA, MI5 and a whole bunch of other national and international security agencies watch these places? Had a flag gone up somewhere with her name on it? Was someone now inside her computer, watching her keystrokes? Was she now live on someone else’s computer on the other side of the world, or deep within MI5? The mention of downloading special TOR software to access ‘special places’ had made her run for the hills, figuratively speaking, and she had closed the browser down very shortly after landing there. She had, however, briefly glimpsed a diagram of what was available had she spent a bit more time and dug a little further. That alone had intrigued and repulsed her at the same time.

  So purchasing the toxic liquid had to be through the ‘normal channels,’ and as long as she had a plausible story if anyone asked, and nobody checked with Helen, she’d get away with it. She hoped. It would arrive at the clinic early on Monday morning, and Philippa planned to intercept the parcel from the courier and take what she needed then. Dinner tonight with Fiona was about finding out where she could infiltrate her life, finding the best point to enter, physically. She would dish out her just deserts for later—in a spade load.

  After the short drive home, she parked in front of her house, opened the front door, and headed upstairs to shower and change. While she enjoyed the warm water jets, she thought about what to wear, though it didn't really matter, as long as it all worked with tight blonde curls—a very different look than her usual short auburn locks. The wig was waiting patiently in her bedroom. It had belonged to a friend who had lost her hair from chemotherapy, and she’d been glad to part with it when the ordeal was over, saying she never wanted to see it again. It was a good one, made from real hair, not a nasty nylon one, and it was about to come in very useful as Philippa brought Jackie Masters to life.

  With the spreadsheet she'd started with all the details of their ‘joint friends,' she'd also had to create the life of Jackie, because Jackie the vet couldn't live and work in Richmond as she did, couldn't have the same background as she did in case something went wrong. Yes, she'd decided to keep the vet story going, after all: that's what she had gone to university for, and where she knew Fiona from. Plus, it was something she could talk about freely, and everyone liked to hear some of her more pleasant war stories—the pooches with odd complaints, the tortoises with housing problems, the mouse that got stuck in its wheel, and so forth. They'd help to ensure a natural conversation with no mistakes, and probably a light-hearted laugh or two.

  She dried herself, applied fresh make-up, and dressed quickly. The bedside clock told her she hadn’t long left. She sat for a moment to get her crowning glory just right. The wig, once in place, looked like it belonged to ‘Jackie,' and, turning her head from side to side, she marvelled at how natural she looked. It actually did suit her.

  “Maybe I should go blonde and get a perm,” she said to herself.

  But it was time to leave if she was going to get there on time, and preening herself was taking valuable minutes. Hoping the neighbours wouldn’t see her curls, she draped a silk scarf with a beautiful poppy print loosely over her head and made her way out to the car. She started the engine and drove away quickly. Only when she was a couple of miles from home did she slip the scarf off and get fully into “Jackie” mode, running through the spreadsheet of vital information in her head. She smiled as she remembered the catchphrase from an old TV talent show that had been popular some years ago. Matthew Kelly, the presenter, would ask each of the contestants who they were going to perform as that night. They always said the same phrase, but would insert the name of the star they'd be impersonating.

  “Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be Jackie Masters!” she said to herself in the mirror. And the audience roared.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Obviously, she knew exactly where Fiona lived. She'd given her the address, after all. Jackie pulled up outside the house on Cedar Road. The clean white UPVC windows looked like a recent addition. It looked bigger than it had on her computer, and even though it was nestled in a row of ten or so other houses, all adjoining, it was still larger than other terraced houses she'd come across. The front curtain moved slightly. Fiona had seen her arrive. Just as she was getting out of her car, she heard the house door close, and a woman's voice shout excitedly in her direction.

  “Jackie!” Fiona yelled as she made her way over to the car, arms outstretched in preparation to deliver a big hug. Both women wore big smiles, and Jackie returned the gesture with her open arms, ready to wrap around the other woman in greeting. Could it go any better?

  “Fiona! Finally!” After a tight hug, Jackie eventually pulled away and looked Fiona up and down admiringly like a grandma would do a growing grandchild, one she hadn't seen in a while.

  “You look amazing. You haven't changed a bit! And I love your hair, but then you always did have beautiful thick hair,” Jackie said convincingly. Thick hair would always have been thick hair; it didn't suddenly start being so, and it was a safer bet than mentioning a particular colour. Or body shape. Fiona had a lovely curvy figure now, but back in university, it could have been very different. No point in going there and risking it. Fiona touched her sun-kissed locks and thanked her for the compliment.

  “I'm famished,” Fiona said, “and I'm looking forward to you filling me in on the years we've missed out of touch!” Did Fiona secretly wonder who Jackie was, where she'd come from and how they knew each other? Or was Jackie just imagining it? If Fiona had no clue, she was hiding it well.

  “Likewise! It’s been too long. Now, hop in, and tell me where I’m headed to. I’m ravenous too!”

  “Not far. A lovely local Italian place. They make the best lasagne.”

  They chatted easily as Jackie drove. At the restaurant, Jackie followed Fiona inside. The place was small, warm and inviting, lit with tea light candles on each table, the smell of cooked garlic on the air; a few bars of Italian singing drifted out from the kitchen area. A young Italian man greeted them and showed them to their table, his gaze lingering on Jackie for a moment longer than was polite. Fiona nudged Jackie as he retreated and whispered, “I think you've pulled already. His tongue is nearly hanging out like a dog’s!”

  Jackie turned to see the young man just before he quickly looked away. He busied himself folding napkins to save himself from blushing. She smiled inwardly that he’d taken an interest. Whatever you were doing, it always felt good to be appreciated. Back to the job at hand.

  “So what’s good?”

  “Well, I know it sounds boring, but I never deviate from lasagne, garlic bread and, if I’ve room, good old tiramisu. Cliché, I know, but it's so damn delicious, I can't bring myself to change.” As an afterthought she added, “And Chianti. Love the taste and it's a great-looking bottle, too. Did you know it has its own name, the Chianti bottle? It's called a fiasco. The bottom part, the bit covered in straw, gives it the flat base to stand on. The actual bottle itself has a round bottom, much easier from a glass-blowing perspective, and the straw protects the bottle and wine during transport so that they can pack some bottles upright, and some upside down in between the necks of the upright ones. And the wine is the best too!” She sat back and took a breath.

  “Wow, who knew that?” Jackie asked. “Are you a wine connoisseur too?”

  “Not really. Just like a nice bottle when I can. Probably stems from working at the hotel, chatting to reps when they visit. It’s just stuff I pick up along the way.”

  “So, tell me all about yourself then, Fiona. Do you enjoy your work?”

  They looked up as the waiter placed menus in front of each of them.

  “Not too much to tell really,” said Fiona, opening her menu. “I work as the accountant at a local hotel just out of town, and I’ve been there since about forever I think. Or it feels
like it. It’s a bit mundane to tell you the truth but the boss is very accommodating, and we get on well.” Fiona couldn’t help but smile a little at her own words and Jackie picked up on the double meaning straight away.

  “Ha, ha! I saw that little smirk. Is it serious?”

  “No. He's just a bit of fun, and that's my bad for showing it. You weren't meant to see that. I’ll have to be more careful,” she said. She lowered her voice. “He's spoken for, not mine for the taking. Now let's change the subject before someone overhears and puts two and two together.”

  Jackie took the cue and, both still smiling, they scanned their menus. Fiona ordered lasagne, and Jackie ordered the same. The first rule of getting on with a new acquaintance was to mirror what they do. So Jackie did just that without being obvious about it: pulling a piece of garlic bread off the loaf after Fiona had taken hers, sipping her wine after Fiona sipped hers. The whole evening was comfortable, and the conversation flowed naturally, with no mention of any geeky people either of them might remember from university, or places they might have hung out. Jackie had everything under control, filing all the important details away on the spreadsheet in her mind, and by the time they'd finished their meal, she was ready for the drive back home.

  As they waited for their bills, Fiona's phone buzzed with a text message. As she picked it up, Jackie could see the words illuminated on the small screen along with the little green icon, but wasn't close enough to be able to read it.

  “Don’t mind me,” she told Fiona. “Answer it if you want to.”

  “If you don’t mind? I’ll just be a moment.” Fiona tapped the screen and quickly replied to the text. “Right. That’s that sorted. Let’s get on our way. You’ve got a bit of a drive yet.”

  “That's okay. It's been really great seeing you again, Fiona. Let's not lose contact again, now we've found each other.”

  The two women hugged and headed for the car in the cooling night air.

  After dropping Fiona off, Jackie drove to the train station nearby and sat for a few minutes, just watching and waiting, for nothing in particular. There were hardly any vehicles in the car park late on a Friday night, and she sat in silence, thinking about what she'd learned about Fiona and her life. And the bonus tidbit that her phone didn't have a passcode on it.

  “Silly woman,” she said, chuckling. She started the engine, pulled out of the empty car park and headed home, smiling the whole quiet way.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It had been a resounding success. Fiona had been easy to talk to and keep on track to areas Jackie knew about, and staying with ‘vet’ as her occupation had turned out to be very safe ground—as she'd expected. Before they'd parted company for the night, they'd arranged to keep in touch online and organise another get-together, probably chat over coffee one day soon—though for Jackie, it couldn't come soon enough. Why drag it on much longer? She had to strike while the iron was hot, while the world still remembered what she'd been so notoriously famous for only a few days ago. No, she couldn't wait much longer. Wouldn't: she had to act soon. Her plan was to contact Fiona and set up a coffee date with the excuse she needed to talk to her about something somewhat personal that really couldn't wait, and arrange to meet her at her home on Cedar Road late morning. The best day to do that was the quietest, Sunday, today. Dropping by so early on a Sunday meant the streets would be quiet, the station car park would be quiet, and that meant a lot less prying eyes if she was seen entering or leaving.

  Digging out her phone, she prepared her message. The plan had rolled around her head for long enough now, and it was time to start, put it in to action.

  Hey, can I talk to you today? I need some advice with something, and I think you may be able to help.

  Send.

  Sounds ominous but yes! You want to meet up?

  If we could, I'll drive over to you again, I'm headed that way anyway later today. 10 am be okay for you?

  Send.

  Yes, then we could go and get a bite afterward perhaps? Great local café around the corner.

  Sounds perfect! Thanks. I’ll see you later on.

  Send.

  It was set; there was no going back. Jackie would soon find out the answer to her own question: ‘What is an acceptable age to kill your first victim?’

  Chapter Twenty

  Present day

  The smell of delicious hot greasy chips from a chip shop nearby filled her nose and reminded her that her stomach was now running on empty. She hadn’t expected it to revolt in such a way but at the first sign it showed of doing so, she’d been prepared. Which reminded her: she was still carrying her stomach contents in her bag. Scanning her surroundings for a rubbish bin, she spotted one right outside the chip shop. A thought came to her.

  “Why not? Let's have a treat after that,” she mumbled, and crossed the road towards the steamed-up windows, the smell of hot chips getting stronger as she approached. Reaching into her shopping bag, she removed the plastic one with its wet contents and dropped it in the bin outside.

  “Some tramp is going to get a nasty surprise if they open that one,” she mused, and headed inside to wait her turn in the short queue. It was still early lunchtime.

  “What can I get you, love?” The man at the counter wore a white coat, batter splashes evident down the front, splodges of grease adding to them. His name tag said “Edward.”

  “A portion of chips, unwrapped,” she ordered. “And I’ll grab a can of Coke too, please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  She stood and watched as Edward filled a polystyrene tray with hot chips and stuck a wooden fork into a fat chip on top, then placed the tray in front of her on the counter top. She helped herself to salt and vinegar that was secured with a piece of string to stop people wandering off with the two containers.

  What was the world coming to when you had to secure a pot of salt? Where exactly would you take it?

  “Here’s your Coke, love. Enjoy your chips, and your day.”

  “Thanks, I will. And you,” she said, and left to eat her chips outside perched on the low brick wall that ran along the front. As she ate, she glanced at the rubbish bin where she'd just dropped the plastic bag and thought how unfortunate it would be for someone to delve in thinking it might be food. Eating her hot vinegary chips in silence, she came up with a plan to save some poor soul the disgust. She headed back inside to get some more, chewing as she went.

  “Can I get another portion wrapped to go, please?”

  “Of course you can, love. You extra hungry today?”

  “Must be.”

  Salt and vinegar?”

  “Please.” She took a long slurp of her Coke as she waited for Edward to wrap the second portion up and hand them over.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing them over. She took the warm parcel from him and headed out the door back to her spot on the wall where she settled back down to finish her chips. She sat there for a few minutes eating, and sipping from the can of Coke, watching the world go by and wondering what each person had been up to during their morning, suspecting she was the only one among them who had just killed someone. Though she couldn't be positive—how could she know? Still, it amused her. The sugar on top of the hot food filled the void in her empty stomach perfectly and gave her a much-needed boost after the morning's stressful start, and she thought back on what she'd just done.

  “Had to be done,” she said under her breath, screwing the now-finished paper and chip tray up ready for the bin. Feeling revived, she walked back over to the rubbish bin, tossed her can and wrapper in, and then laid the parcel of hot chips on top. That way, she figured, any tramp that came along looking for food wouldn’t have to dig down far, and would almost certainly not get down to the bag of mess she’d deposited earlier. She smiled at her thoughtfulness.

  “Best be getting back,” she mused, and set off in the direction of her parked car, which she'd left at the train station just up the road. She'd debated whether to drive in closer o
r not, whether she’d need a quick getaway perhaps, but had decided the wig would be enough disguise. A short bus trip or a walk back to the station would make her less obvious; she'd blend in better. And no one would suspect a killer would take the bus, would they? In any case, the station was only a couple of miles away; the exercise and fresh air would do her good. Besides, she still had one more part of the job to do.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The walk back to her car had done her good, the fresh air and a belly full of hot chips and sugary Coke spurring her mind on with her mission. Unlocking her car, she slid into the driver's seat and dug her first victim's phone out of her bag. Double-checking that the location settings were still turned to ‘off,' she tapped her victim's social accounts one by one and posted the images she'd taken earlier. The photos, even to her, looked pretty grotesque, she had to admit. With each post, she tapped out a short message that read, “Now I'm the trophy. How ironic is that?”

  After she’d posted the same message to all Fiona’s accounts, she sat back to relish the moment. It didn’t take long for the screen to start lighting up as people responded to her very first post, of her very first victim. What do you say exactly when you find a post like that in your newsfeed?

  “Great horror make-up, Fiona! Where’d you get that done?” asked one friend.

  “Gross!” said another.

  “Is that real? asked another.

  “That’s not funny, Fi. I’m surprised at you!” said another.

  “Looks real to me …oh god I hope it’s not ….”